Corduroy Mansions

39. Barbara Ragg Acts

She packed through her tears. She thought that Oedipus would come up to the room, would follow her, would plead. And she might relent - might - if he at least apologised for his indifference. If he had said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Barbara, I’ve been under such pressure and you know how it is . . .’ she would have dropped whatever it was that she was holding at the time and gone to look out of the window. And he would have come up behind her and put his arms around her and said, ‘Sorry. Really sorry. I think the world of you, you know that, don’t you? See?’ And she would have turned and said, ‘All right. I know that you work very hard and that there’s a lot on your mind, but please try to think of me from time to time. Just a little.’ And that would have been that; she would have stayed. But none of this happened, and Oedipus remained downstairs, indifferent, it would seem, to her leaving. Perhaps he had been in the middle of reading an article and needed to get to the end. Or perhaps he had not yet finished scouring the paper for a mention of his name; he did that, she knew - he did that a lot.

Her suitcase ready, she left the room, bumping her head on the low ceiling of the corridor outside. The Mermaid Inn had been in business for five hundred years - five centuries of providing for guests, through the rise and fall of an Empire, through poverty and plenty. Through all those years people had slept in these rooms, had bumped their heads on these very beams. The bumps had been less frequent in the past, she thought - through her sorrow - because people had been shorter then due to their nutrition, or lack of it. Although if you looked at the accounts of what they ate - when they were in a position to eat - you would have thought that at least some of them might have been taller. The groaning tables, of course, were not for everybody, and tallness in a population depended on an improvement in general nutrition.

She negotiated her way down a tiny staircase - too narrow, it occurred to her, for some of the better-nourished visitors from those countries where obesity had now become an issue. Not that we were ones to talk, she thought, with our couch-potato children fed on crisps and convenience food, children to whom a bicycle or a football were quite foreign, objects from a real world barely glimpsed, a world parallel to their virtual one. That young chef, the naked one, would be our salvation, if only people would listen to him. But the public was too narcissistic now to listen to anything but flattery, she reflected.

All these thoughts went through her mind because she did not want to think about what she had just done. She had walked out on Oedipus; she had brought their relationship to an end. And now, at the high desk in the hall, she encountered the quizzical look of the hotel receptionist. There was the bill to consider. Normally she and Oedipus shared the cost of their trips away, although he never offered to pay for petrol, instead remaining seated in her car while she went to the cashier. For a moment she was flustered, uncertain whether to ask the receptionist to split the bill in half. But the bill wasn’t yet finalised. If Oedipus stayed a further night, then there would be the cost of his dinner to add to it. And if he did not stay, would they still be expected to pay for Saturday night because they had booked it in advance?

‘I have to get back to London,’ she said. ‘My . . .’ She faltered. What was he? Could she say, ‘My ex will decide whether to stay’? Or should she say, ‘My friend may have to leave early too’? She did not like the term ex, but it had its uses, and this might be one of them. She settled for Mr Snark. ‘Mr Snark might stay, or he might not.’

The receptionist looked at her sympathetically. She knows, thought Barbara. She has obviously seen this sort of thing before.

‘That’s fine,’ said the receptionist.

‘About the bill,’ Barbara continued, ‘I’d like to pay . . .’ She was about to say ‘half’, but then she decided against it. ‘I’d like to pay for everything. Can I leave the number of my credit card? Put everything on that.’

The receptionist nodded. ‘Of course. No problem.’ It was said - and done - with discretion and courtesy, as one would expect of a professional.

‘I suppose you see everything in your job,’ said Barbara, handing over the card.

The receptionist smiled. ‘Almost. And nothing surprises me, frankly.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

Barbara nodded. She felt gratitude for this kindness - a kindness between women, who understood, of course. This was the true meaning of sisterhood - something that men did not have. One man would not say to another ‘Are you all right?’ A man would not.

‘I’m all right,’ Barbara replied. ‘I just decided that it was not for me. I just decided to take control of my future.’

‘Good for you,’ said the receptionist.

‘It’s a strange feeling,’ Barbara went on.

‘Independence always feels strange at first,’ said the receptionist. ‘These things can be difficult, can’t they? It would be nice not to have to worry about them, but . . . but they’re all around us, men. And we keep going back for more, don’t we?’

Barbara smiled ruefully. ‘Not me,’ she said.

She said goodbye to the receptionist and went out into the small alleyway that led to the hotel car park. The sun was bright and already warm. She would drive back with the top of her sports car down. She would let the rush of air blow away old memories. Men. Yes, they were all around one. But she would certainly not go back for more. This was it.

In the car park, as she turned the car, she hit the wing mirror on a small hitching post that she had not seen. The glass of the mirror tumbled out and shattered on the cobbles below. She switched off the engine, got out of the car, and stooped to pick up the pieces.

‘Bad luck,’ said a voice. ‘Let me help.’

She looked up. A young man was standing at her side, amused, certainly, but concerned too.

She straightened, dusting down the knees of her jeans.

‘I didn’t see it.’

He bent down to start picking up the glass. She noticed the trim shape of his back. She noticed the nape of his neck.

‘You aren’t by any chance going to London?’ he asked.